The last few words arrived under their own steam, her voice already beginning to fade out as the sight of Gwen sank in properly.

Gwen looked dreadful. It wasn’t just the vivid smears of green against her skin—there were ugly red marks along her collarbone that would soon be black, lurking beneath the green of the ointment like rocks beneath the surface of a lake. And she was holding herself so carefully, sitting so rigidly, that it was clear even the smallest movement would be agony.

All Isobelle could do was stare, lips slightly parted, her breath stolen by shock.

But Gwen was avoiding her eyes, two spots of color bright on her cheeks, the blush overtaking the freckles Isobelle so loved to admire. Gwen didn’t want Isobelle to look at her, and so, with a herculean effort, Isobelle tore her gaze away, fixing it on Olivia.

“You called?” she managed, sounding strangely singsong to herself.

“I found out what happened to the women from the village.” Olivia began packing away her medical kit, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I beg you each let me finish my sentence before you start shouting, because yes, we’re going to do something about it.”

Isobelle knew she had to focus. Knew this was serious. But suddenly she was seeing Gwen fly through the air again, the arc taking a lifetime on the way to the ground. But this time, she was imagining the fragile, precious body inside the armor. She was seeing the shock ripple through Gwen as she landed.

If she’d lost consciousness, the tournament physicians would have examined her and revealed her secret. If she had cried out in pain, and someone had heard her higher, more feminine voice . . . If anyone other than Orson had come into her tent afterward . . . And none of that was the worst that could have happened.

Gwen could have died.

“Isobelle?” Olivia’s patient gaze was waiting for her.

“What? Oh yes. Yes.” She made herself sink down onto the room’s single chair, folding her hands carefully in her lap. “Go on.”

“They’re in jail,” Olivia said, forging on over Gwen’s noise of dismay. “The good news is that they’ll be there until the tourney’s done.”

“That’s good news?” Gwen demanded. “What could the bad news be?”

Isobelle could read the truth on Olivia’s grim face, a numb feeling spreading through her body. “The bad news is that they’re going to execute them. On what charge, Olivia?”

“Spreading false rumors that undermine the security of the kingdom,” Olivia replied. “Treason.”

“That’s bull— Ohmygod!” Gwen tried to surge to her feet, then half screamed her curse, falling back down onto the bed.

“Sit still.” Isobelle and Olivia spoke in unison, twin pictures of consternation.

“I told you,” Olivia continued, “we’ll do something about it.”

“Do you have a plan yet?” Isobelle asked, making her voice calm.